


trying to hide

by burnsidesjulia



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: American Revolution, Angst and Occasional Not-Angst, Canon Compliant, Canon Era, Drinking, Enemies to Lovers, Lots of Weakly Researched War, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Pining, Someone dies, mostly - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-27
Updated: 2017-12-27
Packaged: 2019-02-20 15:02:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 18,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13149153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/burnsidesjulia/pseuds/burnsidesjulia
Summary: cuz if the tomcat can get married...hamilton finds a lovely bride. aaron and laurens find each other.





	1. trying to hide

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it MUST be the holidays because here is, finally, my burrens fic. have fun!

Aaron really shouldn’t have come.

It’s wartime- he has every excuse. He could’ve _given_ every excuse. Could’ve said Washington needed him, he was busy writing, he was too scared of getting shot while he had his guard down. For once, he has every excuse, every reason not to go. He doesn’t tell Hamilton any of this. He cedes. He goes to the wedding.

He really shouldn’t have.

He misses the vows and the actual marriage, rolls in during the reception. He’s glad he missed that part of it, that he can just duck in, say hello, leave without incident. He likes resigning himself to the background, especially when it comes to Hamilton. So now, all he has to do is find Hamilton and congratulate him. The words hangs heavy in the back of his throat as he stumbles through the ballroom. Everyone is buzzing about the happy couple. The war is far from their minds, drowned in expensive liquor: courtesy of the Schuyler family. Oh, and the sheer amount of happiness in the air-

Dear god, he really shouldn’t have come.

Hamilton is surrounded by his friends. The lovely bride is nowhere to be found. Which- good. It’s not that he doesn’t want to see her, because Aaron likes Eliza. He likes all the Schuylers, even Angelica, who’s actually _spit_ on him before. They’re a lovely family, really. He still doesn’t think he could face them the way he feels right now. The Marquis, Mulligan, and Laurens all seem an easier feat. A much drunker, happier crowd. He takes in a breath. Squeezes through the people. Lands in a familiar position at Alexander Hamilton’s feet.

“Well, if it isn’t Aaron Burr!”

Hamilton sounds happy to see him; music to his ears. Maybe. Poison, sometimes. He once again thinks that, perhaps, he shouldn’t have showed up.

“Hamilton,” he responds, bowing gently over his arm, and then he regrets it. Perhaps that’s a little too formal. Aaron feels like an actor playing a part. All his movements are unnatural. He finds it hard to meet Hamilton’s gaze. “I didn’t think that you would make it.” Hamilton’s wide hand slaps down onto Aaron’s shoulder, tugs him a little closer and jostles him back and forth. His face is positively glowing. Marriage looks good on him. If Aaron didn’t know better, he’d think that there was never any war. Nothing has ever existed but this joy, this happiness on Hamilton’s face. He feels a little sick.

“Oh, to be sure. I had to say congratulations, didn’t I?” All of Hamilton’s friends are looking at him. They all look a little lost, like they’re being left out of a joke. Talk about a pity party. He clears his throat, nods toward them. “I see the whole gang is here. And aren’t I a part of it?”

“ _No_ ,” Lafayette hiccups drunkenly, barely leaving a moment between Aaron’s sentence and his own. He sways a little on his feet. “You are the _worst_ , Burr.” Hercules nods at this, slaps Lafayette on the back so hard that he stumbles forward. “Just because we’re fighting for the same thing doesn’t make you one of us.” His voice is sharp. Dangerous. He sneers at Aaron, drawing his finger in a menacing line just inches from his throat. “You’re not like us, you know. The rest of us-” hiccup- “came up from nothing.”

That’s a lie. Lafayette has money. Laurens was a spoiled rich little prick as a child. Aaron knows that. They all know that. In fact, Lafayette and Laurens both shift uncomfortably beside Hercules. Still, it stings. Still, it makes Aaron draw up into himself, shifting nervously back from the finger. Hamilton’s brow furrows stubbornly. “Shut up,” he says. “You two are drunk off your asses. Quit being dicks.” And then to Aaron, he says softly, “Ignore them. And congratulations yourself.” He lifts the wide hand from Aaron’s shoulder, claps it back down. “I wish Washington would allow me a command. You lucky dog, you.” He nudges Aaron softly. Aaron feels the coldness around his heart melting away, turning his entire being into an exhausted puddle.

“It’s not as glamorous as it seems,” he corrects anyway. Just to be contrary. To keep his guard up. “You don’t wish.”

“Yes I do,” Hamilton argues. Aaron shakes his head. “Please, Hamilton, be sensible. Why, you’re the General’s right hand man. With your position, you’re practically indispensable. Or, so I’ve heard.”

“Speaking of things we’ve _heaaard_ ,” Laurens sings from the side, comes stumbling up to Aaron’s other shoulder. “I’ve heard a thing or two about you, mister Burr, _siiir_.” He lays his head down on Aaron’s shoulder, starts tracing patterns against his chest. “I hear you’ve got a _lady_ on the side.” As Laurens says this, the finger tracing gently over his skin turns harsh, poking and prodding like he’s trying to dig something directly out of Aaron’s chest. “Have I heard right?”

Aaron’s throat tightens. He doesn’t like John Laurens. He never has. Laurens was, is, always will be spoiled, grew up with a stable home and no real reason to revolt. He’s in the revolution for the glory. He could give less of a shit about the cost. Not even to mention that he’s drunk half the time he’s awake, and he’s a loud, touchy drunk with too many opinions for anyone’s good. Aaron doesn’t like it. He doesn’t like _him_. He doesn’t get any more chance than that to dislike him though, because Hamilton’s other hand is on his shoulder, squeezing warmly. “Is that so?” Aaron opens his mouth to respond, is denied again as Laurens’ arm pulls him the other way. He feels like a rope in a child’s game of tug of war. “What are you trying to hide, Burr?” Laurens slurs, his mouth parted in an impossibly wide grin. Aaron steps back, out of the strange gravity he’d been feeling between them, tugs at his collar. “I should go,” he says decisively, more to himself than to either of them. Likely, he should’ve made this decision the second he stepped in.

“No!” Hamilton protests, just a bit too loud, like he always is. He shakes his head, gestures to his group of friends who are still circling Aaron like hawks. “These guys should go.”

“What?” Laurens asks incredulously, his arms scrambling to grab at Aaron again. He misses, and Hamilton ignores him anyway. “Leave us alone,” he repeats, gives them all a sharp glance. Hercules flips him off, but slings his arms around the other two and retreats. Aaron feels the cloud of unbelonging lift from him significantly.

“I’m sorry about that. But it’s alright, Burr,” Hamilton consoles gently, smiles a warm smile. He looks so happy. Aaron stomach lurches. He smiles back instead of losing his lunch and the glass of wine he’s been sipping on since he arrived. “I wish you’d brought this friend with you tonight, Burr,” Hamilton continues with a playful nudge of his arm. Aaron feels his heart speed up just a hair. Hamilton didn’t call this friend a girl. Like maybe he knows something Aaron doesn’t. Maybe. Aaron has been talking to a girl, but she’s married and even if she wasn’t, she’s still impossibly too beautiful and smart for him. She’s like-- She’s like _Hamilton_ , if Hamilton would shut up every once in awhile.

“You’re very kind, Mr. Hamilton, sir,” Aaron assures him, but shakes his head when Hamilton’s eyes get a hopeful gleam in them. “I’m afraid you won’t be meeting her anytime soon. Or likely, at all. You see, it’s unlawful.” The hope gives way into furrowed brows over still-rouged skin, the drunkenness lazy-rivering through his veins. “What do you mean?” Aaron pulls his lips tight, still tugging skyward in what might be a smile on another day. “She’s married.” And so is Hamilton.

“I see.” Hamilton gives a nod of solemnity. Like he understands. But how could he?

“She’s married to a British officer.” Hamilton raises his head again, his eyes wide. He can’t even formulate a consolation this time, just mouthing the words _oh shit_. And that, the pity in his eyes, the absolute sorrow Hamilton shows him is more than enough for Aaron. And he’s certainly had enough of this wedding.

“Congratulations again, Alexander,” Aaron says, his voice low. It’s barely more than a rumbling in his chest. Saying Hamilton’s first name always feels like a treasure, like a secret moment he has to preserve. Aaron even musters up the nerve to poke the pad of one finger into Hamilton’s ruddy cheek, pull the corner of his mouth upwards into a smile. “Smile more.” When he removes his hand, Hamilton’s mouth stays where he put it. Aaron steps back and drops forward at the waist in a very informal bow. He stands, gives a brief salute, even, just for Hamilton’s ego. “I’ll see you on the other side of the war.” Even that, however far off it might be, will never be far enough away from all of this. Aaron’s chest aches. He wants to go home. Aaron turns and walks away.

Hamilton snatches at his wrist, and unlike Laurens, succeeds in the catch. “Burr, wait. I just-” He pauses as he meets Aaron’s eyes. The two stare blankly back at each other, twin deer caught in each other’s paths. Finally, Hamilton shakes his head. “I will never understand you.” He drops Aaron’s wrist, and Aaron quickly draws it out of his reach. Never again. Never again. “What do you mean?”

“Well, if you love this woman-- and I mean, really, _truly_ love her-- then go get her.” He gestures widely, his arm sweeping out toward the rest of the room. In the distance, lit under candles flickering in the stiff breeze of the ballroom, Aaron sees Eliza chatting with her stone-faced father. Hamilton got what he wanted. When doesn’t he? Aaron looks back at Hamilton, who looks so wistful, so full of hope for his own future and Aaron’s alike. All so strange coming from a man who has himself admitted that he’s always been ready to die. Hamilton nudges him again. “What are you waiting for?”

A sign. Aaron is waiting for a sign. And the sturdy gold band wrapped around Hamilton’s finger is all the sign he needs.

He shakes his head, and Hamilton’s hand comes off his shoulder. “I’ll see you on the other side of the war,” he repeats, like that’ll be enough. Hamilton doesn’t respond. And so it is.

Aaron has nearly crossed the entire ballroom before the commotion starts, at the other end. While Aaron recognizes that this is a cover for him to leave under, he can’t help but give pause. Something in the slurred words of the one yelling, the southern tinge hanging from his voice like loose strings dangling from clothing. It’s Laurens. It _must_ be. What could Laurens be yelling about?

Aaron turns to face the other end of the ballroom again. It’s a bad idea, and he is more than well aware of this, but. He’s already made his fair share of bad decisions tonight. There’s no harm in just one more.

He heads back over, jostling people out of his way in a cool, calm manner, just as if curiosity weren’t eating him from the inside out. When he parts all the way through, he finds himself standing before the bar and, more prominently, a swaying Laurens perched atop a barstool. All eyes are pointed up towards him, and it’s impossible to tell if this is what he had intended or not. He’s holding a glass, tinged red and watery, and it probably had wine in it once upon a time. Now it’s empty, hanging precariously in his grip and threatening to hit the floor and fall apart. He’s slurring out some sort of song, a tune that Aaron recognizes but can’t quite place.

Laurens raises his gaze, meets Aaron’s and grins. He drops the glass, and it shatters into tiny rainbow-casting shards along the floor.

A concerned murmur spreads through the crowd. Someone pushes Aaron out of the way and rushes towards Laurens, dress fanning out behind them. It’s Angelica, and it only takes Aaron a moment to note that based on her posture. She grabs him by the arm and yanks on him, saying something soft enough that only Laurens can hear it. Whatever it is, he doesn’t like it, and he rips his arm away from her and gets louder. Aaron watches tears begin pooling along his lashes.

“Raise a glass to _freeedom_ … Something they can never take _a_ -way!”

Angelica grabs at him again, and misses. Laurens stumbles away from her, shifts all his weight onto the left side of his barstool perch. The stool tips. He tips with it. Laurens hits the floor, facedown in a wide splay of limbs. The room goes silent as he hauls himself up onto his knees, blood dripping from his nose onto the tile floor in a steady pattern, drop after drop. Laurens still has the sense in him to notice the pain, and he lifts his sleeve to his nostrils. He wipes the blood messily, smearing it across his face. He then takes in a shuddering breath, and keeps staring back at his acquired audience. Laurens manages to find Aaron’s eyes again, and then stays locked to them like they’re tethering him down to earth. Tears start to stream down his cheeks, carrying smeared blood with them. Aaron freezes in place.

“For fucks sake…” comes a soft breath from behind him, and then Hamilton is shuffling towards Laurens, concern twisting his face. “John, come on. Get up.” He tugs at his shoulders with a tenderness that makes Aaron’s chest burn. He blinks hard and tries to will it away. Laurens rolls loosely in Hamilton’s grip like a doll, and Hamilton pulls harder. “ _Up_. Come on, Laurens, I’m serious.” A smile comes flowing onto Laurens’ face, but the tears don’t stop. He struggles up from his knees, still surrounded by Hamilton’s arms. “Raise a glass to the four of us…” he mumbles, grinning wide enough to show a newly chipped tooth. Hamilton shakes his head. “You’re drunk. You need to go home. Back to camp.” Laurens doesn’t move, and Hamilton brushes a stray piece of hair out of the drying blood on his face, wipes a tear or two away with it. Aaron flinches. He turns to leave, like he should’ve done when he first got here. When he first met Hamilton.

“Burr, wait!” And so Aaron waits. He always does for Hamilton. And he promises Hamilton he’ll look after Laurens until he’s better. It’s the least he could do, he says, on Hamilton’s wedding night. From his place in Aaron’s arms, Laurens sniffles, and then laughs heartily at the exchange.

-

Laurens is far heavier than he appears. He looks scrawny (and is, honestly- it’s wartime, after all), but feels like he weighs a ton right now, his deerlike legs trembling uncertainly beneath his body like he’s not sure if he’s supposed to be helping or not. Every now and then, he struggles up and out from under Aaron’s grip, and when he does manage to, he is angry. Whatever sort of relief making a scene at Hamilton’s wedding had given him was only momentary, and he’s already prepared to fight again. This is exactly what Aaron was worried he’d have to deal with. But he’s a good man. A man of his word. And he said he’d care for Laurens until he was sober.

“Why’d I have to leave? I swear, I was going to explain myself- hey Burr, are you listening to me?- I _said_ I was about to explain myself when-”

“Be _quiet_ ,” Aaron scolds him. He figures, if John Laurens will act like a child, then he should be treated as one, too. He moves his grip from Laurens’ shoulder to his collar and tugs on it, hard. Laurens’ eyes go wide. His jaw snaps closed, teeth clenched and bared threateningly. No matter. He shuts up.

“Quiet,” Aaron repeats, softer this time. “There’s people sleeping here, you know.” And that’s true, so Aaron figures that he’s said enough. He tugs Laurens onward through the endless setup of half-mast tents, all hanging sloppily and loosely off their poles. Someone is snoring a few tents over. Someone sneezes. Another says bless you.

Laurens follows in silence, the hand on his collar seemingly more than enough to keep him from getting unruly. Apparently, though, this is the only thing keeping him in check, as when Aaron lets go for a moment, he springs back to full height and starts up again. “You could just walk me back to my tent, you know. Like, I can sleep on my own. And it’s not like Alexander will be coming back tonight anyway. You know, he’ll be with Eliza, his blushing bride, _consummating the marriage-_ ”

“No,” Aaron cuts him off again, but mostly because he doesn’t want to think about this, about Hamilton and Eliza. He glances down at Laurens again, his angular face shadowy and strangely peaceful in the moonlight. He doesn’t say anything, maybe because he doesn’t dare, but Aaron can practically see the question forming on his lips. “Because I don’t trust you.” He watches the scowl sweep over Laurens and then turns, his nose in the air. “Because I’ll leave, and then you’ll go back to find Hamilton again, and-”

“Alexander.” Aaron is confused for a brief moment, as he tries to piece together who said what. It’s Laurens again, one fine eyebrow quirked either in confusion or mischief. Or, most likely, both. Aaron clears his throat. “I don’t understand.”

“Alexander. His name is Alexander. Why do you only call him Hamilton?” Aaron feels his own brows shift, downward into a furrow. What an odd question. A stupid question, at that. Aaron has always called him Hamilton. Always, except for when- back when they’d-- No matter. He won’t allow Laurens to get into his head. He shakes it away. “Hush. It’s very late.” He drops his arm from where it was hanging awkwardly in the air near Laurens’ collar, poised to grab again. He turns on his heel and continues to lead toward his tent. Behind him, Laurens scoffs out a laugh, and then follows after him.

The two reach Aaron’s tent in complete silence aside from the crunching twigs and snow beneath their boots. As they approach, Aaron registers that the tent is dark. His bunkmate is not present, and he breathes what might be a sigh of relief. God only knows how much longer he could possibly guarantee Laurens’ silence. He holds open the mouth of the tent, allows Laurens in before him. The man looks impossibly out of place here.

“Well,” Laurens says, his voice dropped into what he honestly must believe a whisper is. Aaron decides that the effort is enough and gives a short nod of agreement. “Well.” He observes Laurens standing there, a shadow against the wall of his tent, for just another moment before turning to light the lamp. It takes a few tries, but sparks up weakly in the corner. Aaron turns to shuck off his boots, but is stopped short as he takes notice of Laurens again. Now painted an ethereal orange, he’s already stripped himself of his coat and let his hair down, and now his fingers are twisting awkwardly at the buttons of his waistcoat. Tear tracks are still visible across his cheeks. Aaron must cringe a bit, because Laurens takes notice, drops his hands. “What?” he asks, almost sharply but without much true malice. “Do you expect me sleep in my clothes?”

“No,” Aaron responds, because, well. He doesn’t. He toes off his own boots, and then adds mildly, “But I do think I will for the night.”

“Suit yourself, sir,” Laurens shrugs, and makes quick work of his waistcoat as well, shrugging it back off his shoulders and onto the floor. Aaron averts his eyes quickly, but not before seeing far more of Laurens’ torso than he’d ever wished to see in such close proximity. He doesn’t like that Laurens called him _‘sir’_. Anything that reminds of Aaron of Hamilton is- well. Laurens will probably always remind him of Hamilton, as it is.

When he musters the courage to look back up, he finds Laurens no longer standing, but laying down, propped up on his elbows on Aaron’s cot with the blanket tossed over his lower half. Aaron blinks at him. “You’re in my bed,” he states plainly, and can’t even find the strength to care that he hasn’t proposed any question at all. Laurens nods. “I am.” He rolls onto his back, tucking his hands beneath his head and staring at the drooping cloth of the ceiling. The blanket shifts further down on him, and Aaron can see no evidence of clothing beneath it, only a freckled strip of skin between his stomach and hips, an angry purple bruise across one of his hips. Aaron cringes, shifting his weight from leg to leg uneasily. “So where am I supposed to sleep, then?” Laurens raises his head at the neck, then one eyebrow. “In your bed?” he says, and Aaron is unsure if this is a statement or a question. He doubts it matters.

“Oh.” And he supposes that’s the end of that.

Aaron lays down to sleep, still in his waistcoat and his breeches. At least he’s warm. He lays on the far left side of the mattress, as far from Laurens as possible. And he _certainly_ doesn’t move the blanket. He’ll just have to sleep without it. The less he knows, the better. Laurens, still mildly drunk and rowdy, hiccups readily beside him. Even once he stops, he starts humming that familiar tune again. _No matter what they tell you..._ Aaron tucks his head under the pillow and ignores him.

And even when he stops humming, Laurens doesn’t halt. He doesn’t stop for anything. Just like-

“Alexander.” Laurens says it like it’s a fully-fledged thought, subject, verb, etcetera all in place. There’s an edge to his voice, something Aaron can’t place. Sadness tinges it. Laurens sniffles and amends his sentence to, “Alexander’s a good man, isn’t he, Burr?” His voice still a bit blurry around the edges, thick with booze. Aaron grunts in response, still under his pillow. He wouldn’t say that but, sure. Why not? So for tonight, Hamilton is a good man. 

“Do you think Eliza is good for him?” Aaron doesn’t reply, and Laurens presses. “I mean, do you think they love each other, or whatever they promised. Til death do them part.” Aaron rubs his cheek raw against the sheet to distract himself. He’s been quiet for too long, but he can’t bring himself to reply. He doesn’t know if Eliza is good for Hamilton, or vice versa. He just knows that they’re married. And god damn it, he’s _happy_ for them.

Laurens shifts a fraction of an inch closer, and Aaron’s insides squirm. Even without covers, Aaron feels far too warm all of a sudden, and wishes wholeheartedly that Laurens was out of his bed, in his own tent. He should’ve just taken him back, damn the promise he made. Another silence falls between them.

“Do you think he’s gotten around deflowering her yet?” Laurens asks emptily, little to no emotion in his voice. Aaron cringes. He still doesn’t answer.

“Alexander never waits for anything he wants. He probably has.” Laurens sighs, laughs dryly. Aaron’s heart aches in time to its rhythmic beat. He tugs the pillow tighter to his head.

“You know,” Laurens says after a long silence. He pauses like he’s forgotten what he was going to say, or maybe just stopped caring. Aaron had been listening, but begins to doze again after nothing more is said. It is several minutes before Laurens manages to finish, “We could probably still stop them.” Not what he’d expected. Aaron finally lifts the pillow off of his head.

“What,” Aaron asks evenly, trying to keep the calm in his voice, “are you talking about.” There isn’t even enough rise in his voice to call it a question. Laurens grunts softly, rolls over to face Aaron’s back. His breath is hot and thick through the cool air. He still smells like alcohol. “The wedding, I mean. Alexander and Eliza.”

“Why would we want to stop them?” Aaron grouches back, annoyance starting to boil in his blood. It was bad enough when Laurens was lying there silently. Now, Aaron wants to sleep, but instead is having to listen to his ludacris ramblings. To him talking about _Hamilton_ , of all things. Laurens shrugs against the thick woolen sheets, his skin making a rough chuffing sound on them. “Why would we stop them?” he mocks, his voice high and whiny as if to mimic Aaron. He snorts, presumably in laughter. “Be honest, Burr. You know why. We both know why.” He makes a noncommittal sound, shrugs again. “And we both would if we were brave enough.” Laurens closes his eyes again. 

Aaron lets out a harsh huff of breath. He wishes Laurens wouldn’t bring this all up. Tonight was enough. Too much has happened, and Aaron is ready to move on. In the morning, he can begin again. And- he’s fine. At the very least, he will be fine. Eventually.

“No,” Aaron replies simply after some time. Sharply. “I do not know why. And I’m plenty brave, so quiet down.” Laurens shrugs again, but doesn’t say anything more. Aaron closes his eyes and allows sleep.

“I’m married too, you know,” Laurens whispers some time later, when Aaron is within moments from sleep. Laurens laughs, shortly. Bitterly. “I have a daughter. They live in London. I haven’t seen her in some time.” He shakes his head. Sniffles again. His voice is thick, but Aaron can’t be bothered to see if it’s from tears. “I might never see her again. But that would do us both some good.” Aaron, his head clouded in with sleep, drifts off and forgets to ask.

-

The war rages on despite it all.

Washington still refuses Hamilton a command, much to his loud-mouthed dismay. Hamilton holds the General in great esteems, but seems not to be above talking badly about him. He has a tricky, fantastic way of complimenting him within his insults; all the men will be washing up at the river, and Hamilton will gush on and on about Washington’s great leadership, and then casually slip in a line about how he wouldn’t know a true commander if he walked up to him and introduced himself by full name. Aaron is well aware that this is a reference to Hamilton himself, who did exactly that.

The winter gives way to a blistering summer, skipping over spring almost entirely. Nothing blooms in the wake of a war, and as it is, anything that did would be burnt away within days. Their troops are starving, boiling, losing footing.

Aaron does his best, but war is boring when not life threatening. He spends much of his time writing to that girl, that Theodosia. If nothing else, she gives him something to do. A romance blossoms. They discuss her husband, and how he’s grown ill recently. How he’ll be gone soon enough.

Aaron is in his tent, writing to her, when he first hears of Charles Lee being promoted to second in command. He knew it had been an idea, but that Lee was unsure, and so it made the General unsure. He thought the command had been given to the Marquis. But no, those conversing outside seem convinced that Lee is the one commanding directly alongside Washington in their upcoming attack on the British. Aaron doesn’t think it’s a good idea to attack in broad daylight. He’s unsure, and he’s worried, but he supposes all soldiers are supposed to feel that way. Not that it matters how he feels as it is; General Washington has never taken anything Aaron has told him with so much as a grain of salt, and it seems that the decision has already been made. In just a few days now, the voices outside his tent say. Aaron holds back a groan, even if just for the sake of his sleeping bunkmate. Poor bastard. He caught some sort of fever, and word has it that he’ll be dead in just a few weeks. Well, weeks, if not days.

Aaron pauses to consider this, from Lee to Hamilton to Washington and back to himself and his own place in all of this, and then he starts a new paragraph in his letter to Theodosia. She’s always enjoyed his war stories. Aaron tells her because she doesn’t romanticize. For now, just writing it down is enough for him to push it from his mind. He even slips in a kind word or two for his bunkmate, despite not knowing the man’s name.

-

They attack at Monmouth in the broad daylight, sunlight gleaming from their sweaty foreheads as if the gods were painting targets on them. Aaron feels utterly exposed, leading a group of men towards certain doom. He’d never question commands given to him but this- this feels like an unwinnable fight. He trudges on. The heat follows.

They strike the back of the British fleet, catching them off guard. Within ten minutes, they’ve brought more than twenty men down, some dead and some only injured, but it only takes that long for word to reach the head of the group. The British are ready just another minute after that, and it goes from a surprise to an outright battle.

Bullets whiz by in both directions, men falling and crouching and dragging onward. To his own group, Aaron commands that they do so, that they go on; he’ll not be remembered as a coward. He will prevail. His men follow, and for just a moment, he feels a sort of pride in himself.

But the British are strong, stronger than them, with more men and more guns and more horses. His men get shot, his men shoot back, but the morale is dropping. It tends to do so in the heat of battle. His men begin to thin out. He is losing ground, fighting a losing war. More simply put, he is _losing_. And he cannot fight the British back on his own.

Aaron, like the coward he swore he wasn’t, runs.

He hurries backwards and buries himself within a group of Lee’s men, blends into the command as if he was meant to be there the entire time. The maneuver works, and he’s simply lost in the commotion of the battle until-

“Retreat!”

Confused murmurs spread through the men. They’re never told to retreat, only to win or die trying. Kill or be killed. No one follows the order. The world seems to pause in curious anticipation.

The cry comes again. “Retreat, I said! There’s too many of them!” And now, Aaron recognizes the voice, can see the man himself. Lee is standing at the head, with his goddamn back turned on the enemy, waving his arms frantically, almost comedically. Aaron feels his brow furrow. He won’t. No amount of British troops should be able to drive them back, not all of them, at least. He wipes his brow with the back of his hand, huffs. He waits for everyone else to disobey with him.

The shock comes when some men turn and start to run.

The men running, however, are stopped swiftly as a figure approaches from the back. It’s another of their commands, coming in for the third wave to strike the Brits. This one is headed by a man on a horse. Aaron watches pathetically as the man surveys the scene. For fuck’s sake. It’s the General. Oblivious, Lee only sees that his retreat has been halted, and so he calls the spineless command again. Washington responds just as swiftly as he came, his voice a whip cutting through the noise of the battle. “Attack!” he corrects, pointing his sword back toward the oncoming fleet of men. They’re just a bit too far to shoot. They’re running out of time.

“Retreat! There’s too many of them!” Lee cries again, his voice shrill in places and laced with panic. Washington’s brow raises momentarily, and then crashes down into a stubborn furrow. “No! Attack, damn it!” The chaos continues to swirl around them. Beads of sweat form on Aaron’s upper lip. Washington whips his hat off his head, turns to face what’s left of his command and points a finger haphazardly into the crowd. “Lafayette! Take the head of Lee’s command!” He doesn’t wait for a reply. He just slams the hat back on his head, digs his feet into his horse’s sides and races forward. There is a brief pause, as if the entire battlefield has stopped and is considering this, and then everyone begins to move again. Aaron rushes forward. Lee rushes back. The battle begins again.

The confusion, however, doesn’t end there. All are rushing in opposing directions, kicking up hot dirt and forming groups of men so entirely muddled together than Aaron can’t distinguish his own men from the British. And so, he can’t shoot from where he stands. He can see, vaguely, some other men struggling similarly. He tries to follow their lead, to shoot where they shoot, but he doesn’t trust their judgement enough. He runs forward, further and further into the area where he left his own slowly dwindling troops, but nothing changes. It seems as if this stretches on forever, only dust and indistinguishable men fighting, thrusting bayonets and bullets toward each other until one dies. Aaron is lost. His vision is fuzzy. The heat must be getting to him.

He surveys the field around himself for what feels like years until he spots a man he is certain isn’t of the colonies- he’s wearing red, standing out like a sore thumb, like the sun has descended onto the cloudy battlefield. He stalks up behind him, readying his gun. He’s poised to shoot, finger on the trigger, when he hears an exceptionally loud bang, followed in great delay by a dizzying burst of pain. His own gun goes off, the force driving it back into his shoulder with more than enough force to bruise. He starts to fall. The world fades to black, and then Aaron closes his eyes.

What a strange feeling, he thinks, to be dying. That is, if he is dying- Aaron isn’t sure. The darkness overtaking him brings with it a new wave of heat, and he can feel sweat beading along every inch of his skin. Somewhere, far off in the distance, more shots go off.

You must get up, he tells himself. Your men are dying out there. They need you, Aaron. Aaron. Aaron…

“Aaron! I swear to God..”

“What?” Aaron asks sloppily, his tongue uncooperative despite his best efforts. The inside of his mouth is dry and metallic-tasting, sticking to his teeth and making any more developed speech impossible. From through the cloud of orange light, a human-shaped figure is visible above him. It shakes its shadowy head, places its dark fingers on his shoulders as if to shake him back into consciousness.

“You just got shot, you absolute idiot. I had to save you.”

And well. Aaron knows that voice.

Fucking John Laurens.

“Huh? I got shot?” Aaron asks instead of batting his hands away like he’d really like to do. That’s strange. He’s never been shot before. He tries struggling to a sitting position, but is halted by a bright, stinging pain in his lower hip. He hisses out a string of swear words and goes to cup the aching spot, but feels his hands pulled away from himself. At this, he loses his balance and falls hard onto his back. The wound on his hip protests in a harsh spike of pain.

“Don’t touch it. Your hands are filthy, you’re covered in dirt. You’ll get an infection.” Laurens gives a deep sigh. “Just- stay here, okay? I’m busy.” He huffs out a breath that sounds clearly annoyed and then he stands, taking two large strides away as if in a hurry. But through this impatience, he pauses, turns back to Aaron. He kneels again, tugs Aaron’s hands back away from the wound. He even takes the time to meet his unsteady gaze. And then, in an even more unexpected motion, Laurens takes one of Aaron’s bloody hands between his own. He squeezes it tightly. “I’ll come back for you, alright?” he says, more telling than asking, and without waiting for a response, Laurens lets go and rushes away from Aaron’s body. When the trail of dust he kicks up settles, Aaron is alone.

He’ll be back for me, Aaron assures himself deliriously. He’ll come back to save me. Laurens _saved_ me. The thought is strange, seems out of place even through the outright bizarreness of this battle, but Aaron’s brain is currently nonfunctional. He’s impossibly tired. His hip hurts. The sun is beating him further down into the dirt.

This sudden feeling of loneliness is shocking. Aaron winces. His hip hurts. And it’s too hot. He fades in and out of consciousness while he sits there, vision hazy-orange through waves of heat. He can hardly breathe. For one of the first times in this entire war, Aaron worries that he may die here, alone and dirty, shot in the hip. God _damn_ , his hip hurts.

He waits, just as Laurens told him to. He waits, as always.

He is nearly unconscious again the next time he is spoken to- or, at least the next time he can comprehend- and he is no longer on the ground, settled flat on a hard mound of dirt. He is in a medical tent. Some woman with calloused hands is prodding at him, clucking like an affectionate mother hen. Aaron’s throat is so dry that it’s cracking. Laurens is nowhere to be found. Aaron considers this, considers asking where he is, and then asks for some water instead. The woman complies, and Aaron makes his stiff fingers wrap around the flask she hands him. The water inside is hot, nearly burning as it goes down, so he stops drinking and uses it to rinse his mouth instead. No protest is given when he spits onto the floor of the tent. The room smells of blood. Aaron worries it is his own.

“Has the battle ended yet?” he asks eventually, wiping dribbled water from his chin. The woman gives him a concerned look. “It’s not of your concern, dear. You can’t return as it is.” Aaron feels his brows crease, and he struggles up onto his elbows while ignoring the burning pain in his hip. “Yes, but I- My men out there- My friends-”

_Laurens._

The woman shakes her head. “Don’t worry soldier. Rest. You’re no good to the revolution dead.” She pushes Aaron back down from his elbows with apparent ease, and he doesn’t fight her on it. More, he can’t, doesn’t have the strength for it anymore. He lies on his back and stares at the sloping, burlap ceiling of the tent. Sweat rolls down into his eyes, and he wipes at it fiercely. Damn this heat.

“We need every man alive,” the woman says, nearly chiding now, placing a damp rag on his eyes. Aarons closes his eyes under the weight of it, but doesn’t sleep. He can’t. He lies there for what could be hours, listening to the whizz of bullets nearby and praying for his men. Praying that Laurens will come back and find him.

-

Aaron stays the night in the medical tent, biting down on rubber while several nurses try to pry the bullet from him. They keep him another day, constantly undressing and redressing his wounds, bathing the stench of blood and heat off of him. As time passes, the far off sounds of battle get farther and more sparse, slowly dying out as the battle ends. They send him back to his own tent come the third or fourth nightfall, telling him to take it easy on himself. He is not dismissed from duty. The revolution needs all the men it can get. Aaron understands this, and grows to accept it as he walks unsteadily back to his home.

Aaron is beginning to lose his faith in this war. It’s been years, and nothing has changed. Monmouth only seemed to solidify this notion in his mind. He sees no way that they can win and yet- He doesn’t know. He’s unsure now, and more than ready to believe that he’s just delirious from this unceasing heat.

He reaches the camp his tent is set in. He’ll be glad to sleep in his own cot, across from the new soldier he bunks with. The man is young, too young, filled with vigorous hope for this cause. Aaron admires him. Aaron prays for him.

Aaron reaches his tent only to find a lamp already burning within it, a dark shadow cast against its walls from the inside out. He assumes it’s that new boy, writing a letter home to his sweetheart. He parts the flaps and instead, finds-

“Welcome home, Burr.” Aaron feels his defenses go up, crosses his arms over his chest and shifts his weight around his hips (to the left hip- always the left hip now). “What are you doing in my tent?” he asks bluntly, and Laurens shrugs, tosses his hair back over his shoulders. “Well. I promised you I’d come back for you, so. Here I am.” Aaron frowns, but can think of nothing to say. Laurens _did_ say that and- well. Here he is. Can Aaron really complain?

“Let’s see it then,” Laurens demands, standing from Aaron’s bed with crossed arms. Aaron tilts his head. “See what?” Laurens rolls his eyes, nodding his head towards Aaron’s hip. “The bullet wound. I’ve never been shot and I want to see it.”

“Why should I show you?” Aaron fires back in response, and Laurens laughs at him in that infuriating way that he does. “I saved your ass from bleeding out on the battlefield. I think you owe me this much.” Aaron shifts again, uncomfortably. The notion of dropping trou just so Laurens can stare at his hip in great detail- he’s not sure he’s alright with it. “Aren’t you even going to ask me how I’m doing?” he deflects again. “Since I was, you know, _shot_?”

“I’ve gone ahead and assumed that you’re doing just peachy, actually,” Laurens answers, sarcasm laced in each of his words. Aaron nearly laughs at him and the remains of his southern tendencies, but the discomfort overpowers that. Laurens sits down on the opposite side of the tent, gesturing that Aaron sit across from him. Aaron complies, just looking back at him blankly. Laurens shrugs again. “I won’t make you, Burr. But again, I won’t leave until I’ve seen.” Aaron thinks this over. Laurens is a man of his word, and he likely won’t leave until he gets what he wants. Aaron lets out a deep, defeated sigh.

“You drive a hard bargain, Lieutenant Colonel Laurens,” Aaron states dryly, and then starts to unlace his breeches. The fascination with which Laurens watches is nearly too much, and he almost stops. Still, he knows that will only drag this on longer. He unties them, strips to his underclothes.

“You’re thin,” Laurens comments. Aaron watches his eyes trace over bones that show faintly through his skin. “And you’re not?” Aaron answers, fidgeting nervously with the bottom of his shirt. Laurens doesn’t respond to his comment. “Hm. Take your waistcoat off, as well.” Aaron stop his fidgeting, grabbing at the shirt with both hands. “Are you mad?” he asks, his face burning. Laurens shakes his head slowly. “No. I just want to see the bullet wound, and I know it’s higher up on your hip.”

“Oh,” Aaron replies because, that’s fair enough. And Laurens is treating this so normally that he can’t even find an angle from which to argue against this. He kicks his boots off, reaches up and pulls off the clothing on his top half. Then he sits, nearly nude, across from a fully dressed Laurens. The candlelight flickers across Laurens’ face, making him ghostly. He hardly moves.

“Well,” Laurens says finally, after he’s apparently had his fill of tracing Aaron’s form with his eyes. He stands, dropping to his knees in the space between the beds. He presses a hand on Aaron’s chest and gives him a soft push. “Lie back, now. Let me see.”

Aaron watches him closely as he leans forward, a gentle hand following his gaze toward the wound. Aaron himself hasn’t looked at it much- it’s covered by a thick, gauze-y substance. The nurses had replaced the dressing on it twice a day, and he didn’t think much about the appearance of the wound itself. Laurens touches the bandage with impossibly gentle fingers. “Under here?” he asks, and his breath feels almost cool in the thick heat of the night air. Aaron nods, paralyzed. He’s never seen Laurens be so tender. It nearly frightens him.

“Let me help you replace the bandage,” he says, tracing a small patch of browning blood with the tip of a nail. Aaron takes in a sharp inhale. “I don’t have any more gauze.” Laurens gazes up at him, puzzled, and then shakes his head. “That’s alright. Let me just-” He doesn’t finish his sentence. He just slips a nail beneath the patch, pulling it away from Aaron’s skin. It hurts, and Aaron flinches back a little. Laurens doesn’t seem to care too much.

It’s hard to see by candlelight, but Aaron supposes that the wound is healing. There’s still a hole in his flesh where he was struck, but it’s been sewed together roughly, turning slowly but surely into a raised, ugly scar. Laurens hisses in a breath between his teeth. “Christ,” he mutters, shaking his head. “Is it painful?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Aaron answers, very shortly because that much should be obvious. John Laurens is not a dumb man but- his thought is interrupted by a bright flash of pain, Laurens prodding at the skin around his wound.

“Do you _mind_?” Aaron barks at him, and to his credit, Laurens draws his hand away. “Sorry,” he answers, his voice a bit too loud in the silence of the night. “I was only feeling if the bullet was still in there.”

“No, it’s not. They removed it.” Aaron flops onto his back, his forehead beading up with sweat. He can feel Laurens between his legs, his presence obvious by his heat and the flow of his breaths. Aaron hears a short ripping sound, and then feels a cloth much softer than the gauze being laid across his bullet wound. “What are you doing?” he asks, sitting up just slightly to find Laurens, his own sleeve between his teeth, ripping threads away. Laurens smiles back at him through a mouthful of cotton. “I’m making you a new bandage.” Again, Aaron tries to think of a way to argue, but can’t. Instead, he props himself up on an elbow and watches Laurens work. Before long, he’s stuck it back in place, stretched across his hipbone as if it were meant to be there. Aaron notes the missing chunk of fabric along the cuff of Laurens’ coat.

“Thank you,” he says when he’s done, and Laurens waves a hand dismissively. “You would’ve done the same for me, Burr. It’s no big deal.” He sits up, away from Aaron’s hip and gazes back at him. His pupils dance orange in the candlelight. “I’ve never been shot before,” he repeats, genuine curiosity lacing his voice. “I’ve been stabbed before, a few times, but never shot. I guess I’m just lucky.”

“Well, I’ve never been stabbed,” Aaron responds, thinking about the fact that Laurens considers one shot worse luck than several deeper wounds. Laurens’ eyes light up. “You haven’t?” he asks, and Aaron can’t help but humor him. “No, I haven’t. Could you possibly show me-” He doesn’t have to finish his question, because Laurens has already shot to his feet and removed his shirt. He stands before Aaron, as if letting him observe his body before lifting a finger to trace across a white-pink scar, glaringly obvious over the deep tawny brown of his skin. It spans the length of his chest, from right hip to left shoulder. Aaron watches intently for the entire time it takes him to trace it. Laurens grins. “I got it at Brandywine. That Brit almost killed me. Nearly sliced me in half. Instead, I got this.”

“Did it hurt?” Aaron asks, in an echo of Laurens from earlier. Laurens scoffs. “Hardly. Bled a lot, though.” Aaron nods because he can’t think of anything to say, and Laurens accepts that. He stands there for a moment, lost, before he starts speaking again. “I’ve got a few others. Like, there’s one on my back, too, and then one on my thigh-”

“I’ve seen enough,” Aaron halts him gently, and Laurens shuts up, shockingly. He nods. “Okay,” he says, like maybe that’s all he has to say anyway, and settles back down onto the bed opposite Aaron’s. He shifts around like he’s trying to make himself comfortable.

“He’ll be back, you know,” Aaron says, nodding toward the bed Laurens has settled into, and Laurens shakes his head. “No, he won’t.” Aaron raises a brow. “And what makes you say that?” Laurens shrugs nonchalantly. “Got shot, same as you did. He didn’t take it as well.” Aaron feels his face pale. He doesn’t respond, and Laurens takes this as him not understanding. He shifts onto his elbow, facing Aaron. “He died, Aaron. You know-” Laurens draws a finger across his throat, hanging his head to the side and dropping out his tongue. And yes, Aaron knows. The visual is still, somehow, more jarring.

“Oh,” he replies this time. Aaron can’t imagine such a young man dying. He tries not to think about it. They fall back into silence.

“Are you alright, though?” Laurens asks, his voice shattering the melody of cricket songs. Aaron nods. “Yes.” Laurens lies out flat on the bed. “Really?” he asks again, and Aaron sighs. “Yes. It hurts to walk, but I am managing.”

“That’s alright enough, then,” Laurens says, staring up at the roof. He sighs, too. “I’m engaging in a duel tomorrow morning.”

“You’re _what_?” Aaron snaps, bewildered at Laurens’ calmness. Laurens rolls onto his side to face Aaron. “I said I’m dueling. Alexander is my second.”

“Why would you do that?” Aaron asks, completely unbelieving. “And against who?” Laurens shrugs. “Charles Lee. For costing us Monmouth.” Aaron sits up straighter. “You’re ridiculous. Dueling won’t fix anything, and it’s illegal as it is.”

“Illegal is better than risking the lives of your men,” Laurens says, still a picture of calmness. Aaron shakes his head in disbelief. “Washington will strip you of your titles.”

“He won’t.”

“He will! Why is this so important to you?” Laurens sits back up, meeting Aaron’s eyes. “Because Lee got you shot and a dozen others killed. He deserves whatever he gets.” He shakes his head again. “I don’t plan on killing him, anyway. I’ll be fine.”

Aaron blinks back at him incredulously. Laurens has always been foolhardy, prone to acting before thinking, but this puts him in real danger. “Is this what you came here to tell me? That you’re engaging in a duel to defend my honor?”

“To defend the nation’s honor,” Laurens corrects. “I’m not doing you any favors.” Aaron shakes his head. “Who is Lee’s second?”

“Evan Edwards. Pathetic man.”

“Well,” Aaron answers, mind racing, “I’ll just have to replace him, then.” Laurens tilts his head in confusion. “Excuse me?” Aaron shrugs it off, trying to project as much calm as Laurens had. “I said I’ll replace him as Lee’s second and convince Hamilton not to let you duel.” Laurens stares back at him for a moment, and then laughs. “You couldn’t convince Alexander otherwise if you tried.”

“I won’t have to try,” Aaron tells him, voice edging on stern. “Because you aren’t going to duel against Lee.” Laurens’ brow furrows stubbornly, the candlelight on his skin making him appear almost threatening- but then he softens. His face goes slack, and he relaxes backwards, slumping.

“What am I supposed to do, then?” Laurens asks defeatedly. “Just not show up? Like a coward?” Aaron shakes his head, resists the urge to reach out and comfort him. “You’ll still show up. You’ll go and talk some sense into-” he pauses, bracing himself- “Alexander. You’ll tell him to call off the duel. To reach a peace.” He takes a breath, looking deeply but still finding blankness in Laurens’ eyes. “You aren’t a coward, John Laurens,” Aaron says, nearly a whisper. The words settle like fog on a riverbank and cloud the room. Finally, Laurens responds, laughing again. “What makes you think I can talk to Alexander like that now?” His voice is also much quieter. Aaron shrugs. “I know you can, Laurens. You’ve always been able to.” Laurens looks back at him intently, eyes narrowed as if trying to see deeper into him. Aaron watches with the same interest. “You’ve just got me figured out then, don’t you, Burr? You’ve got it all figured out.”

“No,” Aaron responds. “No one does.” He lies back on his cot. It has been a long day, and he’d like to sleep. Laurens watches him do this, and then does the same. “You’re right,” he says, even more gently, like it is to himself. He doesn’t clarify what Aaron is right about, but simply settles back in that dead boy’s bed, crossing his arms behind his head like Aaron remembers him doing back in December. Back when Alexander was only just married. Back when they could’ve changed things.

“Don’t you want to go back to your own tent? Tell Hamil- I mean, Alexander to call off the duel?” Aaron asks, voice soft. It barely travels through the thick humidity in the air. Laurens sighs, softly. “No. I think I’ll spend the night with you, Aaron.” And with that, he reaches to his side and pinches the flame between his fingers. It extinguishes with a _whoosh_ , and Aaron falls asleep to the smell of smoke.

-  
Time marches on, and so does Aaron.

The duel is cancelled, and Lee is removed from his position. Dismissed from his command. Aaron feels very nearly proud of Laurens. He then decides that to be ridiculous and puts an end to the thought.

He heals, though never completely. He has a new stutter to his walk, and he wheezes when he laughs. The pain still shocks him sometimes. This does not deter him. Washington’s trust in him grows, and he is given larger and larger commands. He rises through the ranks. He is becoming invaluable to the revolution. He stops thinking of Hamilton so often.

They push back against the British forces with all their might, and their might has only grown mightier. Von Steuben is a strange man, but Aaron admires how he has shaped their troops. They start to win more often, to drive the British back. New Jersey and New York are relatively slow, but they hear news from elsewhere. The Carolinas and Georgia are succeeding greatly. Their men are overcoming. It seems that the revolution has shifted in their favor.

Aaron continues his correspondence with Theodosia. Her husband, unfortunately, recovers; he, too overcomes, and he returns to Theodosia’s side. Her letters slow, and become less tender. Her sentiments recede. Aaron feels his own begin to do the same. Meanwhile, the vacant bed in his tent is filled by another new recruit who does not die. He is older than Aaron and reserved, unwilling to discuss his past. Aaron decides it best not to pry, and occupies his time by writing in a journal. Life for him is battle to battle, and nothing more than that.

It is nearly a year before Aaron thinks of Laurens again.

He’s going to bathe; there is only one river near their camp, and all the recruits have been sworn to not use it for bathing, to use it strictly for drinking water. At this point, Aaron could care less about his promise because he’s not bathed for several months and he feels filthy. He excuses this breaking of trust as fear for his wound growing infected and reopening. He hurries down to the river in the wee hours of the morning, an almost clean uniform clasped tightly in his hands. As he approaches, he hears splashing and pauses. He assumes it’s only another recruit filling his canteen and so he ignores it. He proceeds through the thick grass, the damp earth smell rising into his head. Just the idea of cleaning himself makes him feel better. He parts the reeds, and there, neck deep in a pooling area of the river, he spies a head protruding from the water. Aaron stops cold.

The head tosses its damp hair around, and then disappears under the slow ripples that pass the surface. Aaron knows he should leave, come back the next morning or abandon the idea completely, but he can’t move. He feels cemented to the ground, being sucked into the mud. The head comes back up, bobbing along the top of the water. Aaron watches the figure through the dull, blue-grey morning light. The shape dances near its own shadow on the water, the silhouette nearly darker than the shadow cast on the river. Both are lean, tall and broader along the shoulders. Aaron pauses, considers this.

Fuck it. 

Aaron disrobes on the banks, squeezing his eyes shut as he removes the last pieces of cloth keeping him modest. He wades in to his ankles, his calves, his thighs and his waist. The space between him and the figure closes. He can now hear a voice, whispers. Laughter. “Hello?” he asks, half not expecting a reply. Instead-

“Burr?”

He regrets every decision he’s made up to this point- it’s Hamilton. It’s Hamilton, broken away from camp to bathe, just like Aaron. And here he is, with him. Frozen like a deer in the path of a man with a gun. Aaron is unsure of what to do. He’s not been left alone with Hamilton since his wedding, when they said what Aaron hoped would be their parting words. To be hovering near him now, both of them presumably nude- Aaron feels bile rising in his throat. He swallows hard. “Uhm. Hamilton?” he asks, voice tight in his chest. A long silence follows. Alexander is thinking, waiting, biding his time. If he touches Aaron now- so much as looks at him-- Aaron Burr will find himself a broken man.

There is a soft splashing near him. “No. Laurens.” He clears his throat. “Is that really you?”

“I- Yes,” Aaron responds. He takes a few steps back from Laurens’ shape, almost relieved that it is him and not Hamilton. “Yes, I’m Aaron Burr.” Laurens makes a soft sound under his breath, almost a laugh, but very genuine. “You sound tense. Loosen up a little, Burr.” He splashes water onto Aaron’s chest, icy cold. “Enjoy it while you can.” He kicks backwards and disappears under the water again, head first. Aaron watches his skin shine wet in leftover moonlight.

Aaron steps further away, turns his back and does as Laurens advised. He dunks his head, scrubs his body down with cupped palms. His skin prunes. He tries to ignore the sound of rippling water behind him as Laurens moves about. When he’s clean enough, he turns back, straightening up. Laurens is floating on his back, spouting water from pursed lips. Aaron clears his throat, and Laurens perks up. Meets his eyes. “Yes?” he asks after his mouth has emptied. Aaron shifts restlessly. “Might I ask why you told me to enjoy it while I can?”

“Oh, yeah. That.” Laurens turns, swiveling upright, slowly. “We’re moving camp again soon. Back to New York.” Aaron shakes his head, though he knows he can’t be seen through the dark. “No we aren’t. Why would we?” Laurens gives Aaron a skeptical look, and dread pools deep in his gut, cold and slimy like a coiling snake. “We _are_ safe here, aren’t we?” he asks, lowering his voice to a whisper. Laurens scoffs and smacks him in the chest, making a wet slap sound as he does.

“Oh, come on. We’re not in this war for safety, Burr. Washington’s moving troops into New York as we speak. Planning to catch the Brits off-guard.” He grins, and Aaron can see the glint of his teeth. “I think this’ll be a good one. I think we’ll win.”

“I just hope we’ll actually have a place to bathe there,” Aaron says dryly, still shaking off the fear. Laurens laughs, treading water. “Yeah. But not having a place doesn’t seem to be stopping us.” Aaron feels his defenses rise. He doesn’t like that it’s been brought to his attention how many rules he’s breaking. He feels the need to defend himself. “I felt dirty,” he says dumbly and after much consideration. Laurens shrugs. “Understandable. So did I.” He jumps, kicking onto his back again. Aaron doesn’t try very hard to pry his eyes away from Laurens’ body this time.

“So, how’s the war treated you, Burr?” Laurens asks after a considerable silence, still lying on his back. Aaron scoffs. “I’ve been bored for months. I imagined war would be much more engaging.”

“We all did,” Laurens agrees. He gives another pause. “Don’t you have that girl?” Aaron feels his brows furrow. “What girl?”

“The one you’ve been writing to for all this time. Doesn’t that eat up some of the boredness?” Oh, Aaron realizes. He’s talking about Theodosia. He clears his throat, immensely uncomfortable. “Ah, her. We’ve stopped our correspondence.”

“Oh?” Laurens asks, though he sounds entirely disinterested. Aaron shakes water droplets from his head. “Yes. She’s married, and just. It simply wasn’t working out.” Laurens hums, clicks his tongue. “Hm. That seems to be the way it always is, doesn’t it?” he asks, and Aaron doesn’t respond. He hopes it was rhetorical.

“Well,” Laurens continues after a time, “that’s that, I suppose. You win some, you lose some. There’ll be others.” There’s a strange hitch in Laurens’ breath as he finishes, “There’s always others.” Aaron scratches at his neck. It feels strange to be receiving this kind of pep talk from Laurens, a man he’s never considered himself close to. Even so, it’s oddly comforting. He takes his hand away from his neck, crosses his arms across his chest. “Thank you,” he says, and it sounds wrong forming on his lips. Even so, he doesn’t take it back. He meant it.

“No need to thank me, Burr. I just feel like you worry too much.” He comes paddling up to Aaron, on his front now. He hovers in front of him, seeming nearly weightless in the water. “Why are you still just standing there? Can’t you swim?” Aaron bites on his tongue, a bit harder than may be necessary. He doesn’t respond. Laurens, however, takes this as an answer. “Oh my god. You can’t swim, can you?” he asks, and this time he definitely isn’t waiting for a reply. Aaron swears he can hear his eyes lighting up through the darkness. Laurens springs up to his full height, water rushing down his neck like it’s running from something. He grabs Aaron by the wrist. At that, Aaron comes back to his senses and tries to wrench away. “What are you doing?” he asks, sounding like someone scolding a child. Laurens is still grinning. “I’m taking you out to deeper waters.” He tugs Aaron in closer to him, water rising between their chests in miniature waves. “Burr, I’m going to teach you to swim.”

Aaron twists his wrist again. “You’re not.” He fails; Laurens has too tight of a grip on him, and he has seemingly made up his mind. Aaron tugs at him a few times, but eventually decides that he’s grossly underestimated Laurens’ strength for all this time and there’s no use. Laurens’ grip loosens as Aaron stops fighting, and they walk into deeper water, farther downstream where the flow of the river picks back up. Finally, Laurens lets him go, crossing his arms expectantly. “Go ahead then,” he demands, and Aaron almost laughs. “I don’t know how,” he says instead. Laurens huffs, rolls his eyes. “Okay, well. You just have to do it, I guess. Hold your breath, mostly. It’ll help you float.” Aaron frowns. “I don’t float.”

“You _do_ ,” Laurens corrects. “But only if you don’t panic.” Aaron huffs back at him. “How am I supposed to not panic? I’ll drown.” Laurens shakes his head. “You won’t. What if I… Okay. I have an idea.” He uncrosses his arms and takes a few large steps back, leaving a gap of several feet between he and Aaron. He smiles, holds his arms out. “Swim to me.” Aaron glares back skeptically. Laurens _must_ be joking now. But when he doesn’t move, Laurens seems to grow impatient. He splashes water across the gap. “You won’t drown. I’ll get you if you can’t do it.”

Aaron shakes his head. “I’m nude,” he says, his skin prickling against the sudden cold he feels. “I’d rather you not touch me.”

“I couldn’t care less if you’re wearing clothes or not, Burr,” Laurens scoffs. “I’m naked, too. We’re bathing. It’s normal.” And for the second time in his life, Laurens’ nonchalant calm wins Aaron over. He shudders, but ducks down until his chin is in the water. This is crazy, he tells himself, nearly scolding himself for getting into this mess. But then, it’s only a few feet. And Laurens said he’d catch him if he were to start floundering and-

Aaron isn’t a coward. He takes in a deep breath, ducks his head, and kicks off the bottom.

It feels like it takes years, but it must only be seconds before Aaron’s head collides with Laurens’ gaunt stomach. Aaron can hear the breath it knocks out of him, and he shoots upright out of the water, gasping for air. He finds himself nearly nose to nose with Laurens, who’s smiling through the pain of the impact. Laurens puts a hand on his shoulder. “Good job, Aaron,” he says, his voice eerily soft. “You can swim.” His hand is incredibly warm, Aaron thinks, especially for the cold water. The moment seems frozen there, just stretching on and on as Laurens splays his fingers out against Aaron’s shoulder. When this feeling starts weighing too heavily on his chest, Aaron is the one to pull away, even if only a step or two back. He smiles, though it feels almost forced. “Thank you,” he says again, and still means it.

Laurens seems caught off guard, but accepts it. He kicks backwards into another float and Aaron follows suit, finding that, yes, he _can_ float. They spend the rest of the dark hours there, floating and splashing. When dawn breaks, the two scramble for opposite banks, redress, and part ways again.

-

They move back to New York. Just like Laurens said. And Aaron moves on- Laurens was right about that, too. Theodosia doesn’t write him back after the last letter he sends, and by the time they move camp, he stops waiting. He’s tired of waiting for everyone around him to meet him in the middle.

They fair well in New York, but lose the battle ultimately. It’s one of the ones that last only one searing hot day, and then die down like the end of a dust storm, settling slowly and dirtily. The picnickers nearby pack up, both sides count their dead. More than dead, though, the British manage to destroy a camp and leave nearly a third of their men homeless. Each tent still standing takes in another man. Their living situation, already cramped, becomes worse still. 

Aaron is still waiting, patiently even, for the war to come to an end. It can’t be long now, he figures. He’s been in it for years, had this damn bullet wound for what feels like centuries. There can only be so much to fight for before someone cedes. Before someone bows to the pressure and gives in. And at this point, he is no longer sure that the British will be the ones to do so.

More than all of that, Aaron is tired. The war is long, and he has maybe outgrown it. He’s certainly outgrown a lot of things in the years since the war began.

Aaron thinks about Hamilton even less so. And yet, he finds himself missing John Laurens more and more. 

He thinks of the man often. If he thinks long enough, or on some occasions only for a moment, he can see him. Aaron sees Laurens in his dreams sometimes, too, crouching by the side of his bed, bandaging him with tender hands. Aaron can feel Laurens guiding him gently through the water, teaching him to swim. And most vividly, he sees Laurens at Hamilton’s wedding. He sees him swaying, singing a drinking song. Bleeding nostrils and a chipped tooth. Crying. He hopes for better days. For the both of them.

This is how Aaron occupies his time between battles now that he has no one to write. He considers contacting his sister once or twice, but decides against it. She’s living in London, so. Here he is again. Stuck.

There is another battle soon after the first, and again, they lose. The patriots are succeeding all over, but only elsewhere in the country, it seems. They stumble back and forth between New Jersey and New York. Again and again, the British beat them down. Again, morale drops. Again, Aaron loses hope. He doesn’t see the point in fighting a losing war. He doesn’t see how they can win this. And he doesn’t see John Laurens again for a very long time.

-

Aaron is re-stationed in 1780, and he moves to Virginia. No matter; he has nothing and no one left in New York. In fact, he is happy to leave.

Aaron is only just now twenty four, but feels very old. He feels as if he has lived many lives, and done many things. Virginia, though, is more lively these days. Their country is beginning to form itself, grow legs to stand on. With the bustle around him, Aaron finds less time to consider his livelihood. He rededicates himself to the revolution.

The year passes quickly and quietly. Aaron celebrates Christmas himself, his tent caked in snow. He lights a fire and hopes it will melt off. He waits for the new year to roll around just as plainly.

On the eve of the new year, Aaron walks to a bar. He doesn’t do this often, and he certainly has never been to this one, but he’s craving a cold drink now. Why, he isn’t sure. But Aaron finds himself on the outskirts of Kentucky County, in a seedy bar filled with other men like him, lonely and parched.

He orders a drink, something strong and dark. Aaron doesn’t like the taste of alcohol, but he’s here so he might as well. He figures, as he takes his first drink, that bars are never somewhere he means to go. More, he just winds up there, and spends his money on bitter alcohol that tears his throat to strips.

From his left side comes a succession of shuffling noises, followed by a sharp laugh. “Well. If it isn’t Aaron Burr.”

This time, it isn’t hard to place the voice. Aaron turns, no longer fearing who it is. He’s greeted with a toothy smile. “Laurens,” he replies, and the smile widens. Laurens slides onto a stool beside him, putting his elbows up on the splintery countertop. “What brings you to Virginia?” Laurens asks him, looking him up and down. Aaron does the same. Laurens looks the same, if not a little darker-skinned. He seems to have gained weight. He looks- good. Healthy.

“Duty calls,” Aaron responds plainly, and takes another short drink from his glass. He sets it back on the bar with a clatter. “And you?”

“Same as you. Did you really expect any different?” Aaron shakes his head. “Not really. I just thought it polite to- Laurens, what on _Earth_ are you doing?” Laurens has snaked one sneaky hand across the bar and wrapped it around Aaron’s glass, lifting it to his mouth even as Aaron catches him in the act. He swallows what’s left in the glass, setting it back down with very little interest. “I was finishing your drink for you. I figured you’d thank me.”

“Why would I thank you for taking something that I paid good money for?” Aaron asks, anger creeping up his spine. It was very cheap liquor, but damn it, it was _his_. Laurens scoffs. “You were cringing every time you took a drink. It was obvious you didn’t like it.” Laurens smacks his lips together, flicking his tongue out over them sharply. “Luckily for you, I happen to enjoy the taste of shitty beer. Southern tradition, I guess.”

“You still drank _my_ beer,” Aaron argues, but feels embarrassment replacing the warmth of anger in his cheeks. He’s supposed to be a strong man. Strong men don’t flinch at the taste of alcohol.

“I’ll pay you back if it really means so much to you, Burr,” Laurens tells him, and then holds his finger up. Whether to stop himself or Aaron, Aaron isn’t sure, but he holds it there as he begins to speak again. “Actually, no. Here, I’ll buy you a drink.” Aaron starts to shake his head, to tell him no, but Laurens shakes his head right back. “Come on, now, it’s only one drink. In the spirit of the holidays, you know.” Aaron still doesn’t budge. “Christmas was a week ago.”

“Never too late to celebrate, Burr. Would it make you feel better if I let you buy me a drink, too?” He places his chin on his hand, batting his eyelashes mockingly. Aaron still feels flushed with embarrassment, all the way up to his ears. A trade seems fair. He nods. “Yes. That would make me feel better.”

“Lovely,” Laurens smiles, sticking one arm up to wave the bartender over to them. As the man begins to cross to them, Laurens points out the empty glass to Aaron and says, “I’ll have another one of those.”

Aaron doesn’t listen as Laurens tells the man behind the counter what to get for Aaron, but he wishes he had as soon as he receives it. It’s not absolutely horrible, unlike almost every other bit of alcohol he’s drank in his life. Laurens smiles as he watches him take another drink, almost enthusiastically.

“See, isn’t that better? I didn’t like seeing you uncomfortable, Burr. It ages me terribly.” He laughs at his own joke, but Aaron is unsure if a joke has even been made. More, he wonders how Laurens knew what he would like. And why Laurens would care about his discomfort anyway. He decides to ignore the comment entirely, and tries to strike up small talk.

“How’s the war been?” he asks first, as he remembers Laurens asking years ago. Laurens shrugs. “Same as always. War is hell, you know what they say.” Aaron nods, taking a slow, savoring drink from his glass. Laurens watches him as he does so. “Let’s not talk about the war,” he says, shaking his head. “I think of it all the time, as it is. Let me hear about you, now, Burr.”

“What do you mean?” Aaron asks, extremely unsure. Laurens makes some sort of vague gesture. “I mean I know very little about you outside of this war. Tell me about what got you here.” Aaron clears his throat. “I’m not sure I’m comfortable with this,” he admits, because that’s the truth. Laurens raises his eyebrows, seemingly surprised at this admission, but he quickly lowers them. “It’s alright. I’ll begin. Where were you born?”

“Newark. In New Jersey.” Aaron scratches at the back of his neck. His answer seems very boring when said aloud. Still, Laurens cracks a grin and nods. “I was born in South Carolina. Wouldn’t matter much to you where, exactly, since you’ve never been. But when the war ends, I’m going back.”

“That’s fair,” Aaron replies, for some reason feeling thoroughly calmed. Laurens has a strange detachedness about him that has that effect on Aaron, and he’s grown to quite like it. Laurens rolls his hands around each other, gesturing for Aaron to continue. “Go on. Now you ask a question.” Aaron pauses for a moment, trying to think of something deep and meaningful, and finally settles upon asking, “Did you go to university?” Laurens laughs. “Of course you would ask that, Burr. Yes, I did. In London.”

“What for?” Aaron asks, before he can convince himself that it’s a silly question to ask. Laurens clears his throat. “Law.” He sounds unsatisfied with his own answer, but leaves it at that. Aaron shifts, similarly uncomfortably. “Me as well,” he says, and Laurens licks a droplet of cheap alcohol from the rim of his glass. Aaron watches his tongue move about to retrieve it. “That’s fair,” Laurens says, echoing Aaron, and promptly downs the rest of his glass. Aaron watches in total silence, unsure of what to say. As Laurens brings the empty glass back down to the countertop, he smiles playfully back at Aaron. “You wouldn’t mind buying me another, now, would you?” Aaron swallows hard against the lump in his throat. Laurens bats his eyes, nearly coquettish. And no, he wouldn’t. Aaron wouldn’t mind at all.

Some time and several drinks later, Laurens places his half-empty drink down on the counter with a decided _thump_. “It’s late,” he declares, and his voice slurs slightly around the edges of his words. Aaron hiccups. He’s scarcely been drunk before, and he’s not sure if he is now, but he’s definitely tipsy. His mouth tastes of copper and smooth oak. When it becomes apparent that Laurens isn’t going to say anything else without prompting, Aaron fumbles for his pocket watch. “It’s only just past nine,” he says upon checking the time, and Laurens nods vigorously. “Exactly.” He pushes back from the bar, climbing clumsily to his feet. “I say we get out of here.”

“Why? It’s not as if there’s anywhere else to go.” Even as Aaron argues this, he rises to his own feet. He’s had a nice time with Laurens tonight, and the man was right; it’s never too late to celebrate. The new year begins tomorrow, for God’s sakes. He ought to celebrate, and he might as well be celebrating it with Laurens.

“There’s plenty to do,” Laurens counters. “If you’re creative enough. And luckily for you, my little Burr, I am _very_ creative.”

“Don’t call me little,” Aaron tells him, but is sure he’s ignored as they step out the door and into the chilly night. Snow drifts dot the ground around them, melted in spots and slushy. The sky is clear, and above, the moon hangs only a sliver in the sky. Laurens’ hand finds Burr’s wrist, and he grabs onto it tightly. “I’m a creative man,” he repeats, nodding at Aaron, smiling. “Still, the question remains. Do you trust me?”

Yes, Aaron wants to say. He does trust Laurens, and only God knows why, but he does. He’s not entirely sure when he began to, but he trusts Laurens now. And so he wants to say yes. Instead, he shakes his head and says, “Not in the slightest.” Laurens grins back, wide enough that Aaron can see his chipped tooth. “Perfect,” he says, releasing his grip on Aaron’s arm and beckoning him along. Aaron rubs the spot on his wrist where Laurens had gripped him, and then hurries after him, out of the light of the pub and into the thick darkness of the night.

They spend a long while walking along in silence before Aaron has to question where exactly Laurens is taking him. When he asks, Laurens stops dead in his path and turns to him, still swaying slightly on his feet. “If you really must know,” he answers, “I know a place. There’s a clearing out here in the forest, and so we can just sit back and watch the show.”

Aaron doesn’t ask _what_ show exactly, but tilts his head, feeling another bout of hiccups forming in his chest. Laurens rolls his eyes, answering a question that wasn’t asked of him. “A bunch of troops in the other camps decided to celebrate. So we’re gonna watch the celebration.” Laurens starts walking again, and Aaron follows unsteadily after him. Other camps means British camps. No good can come of this.

“What celebration?” he asks finally, and Laurens turns around, beaming. His eyes glint mischievously in the scarce moonlight. “ _Fireworks_ ,” he says, his voice a hush, and then resumes his walk toward wherever it is that they’re going. That clearing, supposedly. Aaron can’t believe himself, what he’s doing. But for now, he trust Laurens like he’s never trusted before.

-

By the time they reach their destination, it is nearly half past ten. A wispy cloud has rolled in front of the moon, blocking out the rest of the available light that they had had. Laurens, ever prepared, gathers together a pile of only mildly wet leaves and struggles to light them with a match. After several fruitless attempts, Aaron takes the matches from him and draws out two, lighting one and catching the other aflame with it. He sets them both down on the damp pile, and watches them as slowly but surely the leaves begin to light. The fire sprouts to a height of a few inches, and a great many of the leaves still sit uselessly at the bottom of the pile. Aaron rests back on his knees, directly beside the sad pile. Laurens steps up beside him and whistles lowly. “Good job, Aaron.”

“Thank you,” Aaron says, glancing up at him, and when his gaze turns back to the fire, he adds, “John.”

Laurens settles down on the damp grass beside him, warming his hands over their pathetic little fire. Aaron turns toward him, still feeling himself wobbling. “When do the fireworks start?” he asks, and Laurens shrugs. “Dunno. Not for some time now.” He lifts his hands from their spot inches over the licking flames, pressing them to his face to warm it up. “I guess we just wait until then.” Aaron nods in response, though he’s not sure why. “That’s fair.” He hiccups again. He supposes alcohol just has that effect on him. “What shall we do to pass the time?” Laurens takes his hands off his face, reaching for his pocket again. “Well, I don’t know about you, but-” He stops as he draws a cigarette from his pocket, placing it between his lips. He sees the look Aaron gives him, and shrugs. He leans in toward the fire, pulling his hair back between his palms to keep it far from the fire. The cigarette lights up and he pulls away, the tip of it glowing orange as he inhales. Aaron wonders why this is the first time he’s ever seen him smoke.

“You want one?” Laurens offers him, and Aaron falters. He doesn’t smoke often, and definitely not regularly. But, it’s a way to pass the time. He nods, and Laurens flicks one out of his pocket to give it to Aaron. Aaron sets it between his lips and holds it there tightly. Before he can lean into the fire to light it, Laurens’ hand is on his cheek, tugging him toward him. Aaron watches, wide-eyed as Laurens’ eyes get heavy, nearly closing as he touches the cherry of his cigarette to the end of Aaron’s. They stay in that position for what feels like an exceptionally long time until Aaron’s cigarette finally lights. Even then, it takes Laurens a very long moment to drag his hand off of Aaron’s cheek. He sits up and away from Aaron now, dragging at his cigarette, staring blindly into the heart of the fire. Aaron takes in a stuttering breath, and then does the same. A heavy silence falls between them.

“Aaron, I’ve been meaning to ask you something for awhile.” Aaron turns his head. Laurens’ mouth moves, and with it comes a pouring of smoke. He shrugs, taking another drag from his own cigarette. “Feel free, then.” Laurens’ hands hover over the flame again. “It’s just. About you and Alexander.” Aaron’s defenses fly up. He feels his shoulders hunch upward, toward his shoulders. As if he’s trying to block out the impending question. Laurens seems to notice, and he shrinks back a bit, but presses onward. “It’s nothing personal. I just wanted to know.”

“It’s not your business,” Aaron answers sharply, placing his cigarette back between his lips. He cocks it to the side, hanging out of his mouth. Laurens nods. “I know it’s not.” He turns back to the fire. “I just wanted to know,” he repeats. Aaron feels his chest tightening. He knows Laurens is drunk, and that Laurens has no filter as it is, but still. He’d been having a nice night, the first in a long while, and then this. To bring up Hamilton, to make him think about this man he’s done such a good job of forgetting. He’s unhappy about it. He’s angry at Laurens for bringing it up. And he’s angry that he’s angry about it.

“I could ask the same of you,” Aaron answers after the pause it takes him to think this. Laurens turns back to him. “You could,” he answers slowly, “but I’d be careful with that.” Aaron laughs, and he feels how sharp it is as it exits his mouth. “Yeah, well. You’d ought to be careful, too, then.” Laurens smiles crookedly, ashing his cigarette on the damp ground beside him. “We both know what we know,” he says. “And maybe a little more.”

Aaron gives another pause at this. He certainly understands what Laurens is saying because, as much as he’d deny it, Aaron had feelings for Hamilton. He always has. That man has such a pull about him, and he’s unavoidable. He’s everywhere. He’s sitting right in front of him, too, because Laurens is so goddamn much like him. But the way he’s worded it makes Aaron wonder. He scoots closer to Laurens. “What do you mean by that?”

Laurens smiles again, his eyes glinting almost mischievously in the firelight. He starts to lean in to speak, and then a faroff bang startles them apart.

Aaron hits the ground instinctively. Because they’re so _stupid_. They walked off in the direction of a British camp and lit a fire. They’re drawing an impossible amount of attention to themselves. And now, this is how they’re going to die. He’s been on the ground for several seconds when it occurs to him that Laurens is still sitting upright beside him. Aaron lifts an arm blindly behind himself, grabbing at Laurens’ sleeve. “Are you _crazy_? Get down.” Laurens laughs above him. “Aaron, stop it. Look.” He pushes Aaron over onto his back, forcing him to stare up at the sky. As he does, another bang goes off. Aaron flinches, but then sees sparks erupt in the sky, cherry red and orange. Laurens leans over him, just momentarily blocking out his view of the sky. “Fireworks,” he whispers, almost giddily. Aaron finds himself smiling back up at him. Laurens looks back to the sky, still smiling. “I guess the show kicked off early.” He reaches into his jacket again, and draws out his flask of water. He dumps it on the fire, and it goes out with only half of the container. The clearing around them goes dark until another firework blooms in the sky and paints it a fiery gold.

Aaron feels his chest jump with every explosion, his heart pounding excitedly. His mind is still half-occupied with rolling over and over thoughts about Hamilton, but it doesn’t matter. He’s warm from the fire, lying on his back and watching the fireworks fly into the heavens, the ashes coming down at half speed afterwards. Laurens is beside him. Laurens is watching the fireworks with him. Laurens seems to be moving closer.

Between the explosions, Aaron turns to him. He nudges Laurens in the shoulder to catch his attention, and he turns. They lock eyes. “I’ve got a question for you now.” Laurens quirks one fine, mousy brown eyebrow and shrugs. “Feel free, then.” Another firework plumes up and into the sky, rising and dying like a phoenix. When the boom has passed, Aaron asks, “What did you mean by that? ‘We both know what we know’?” Laurens lowers his brow, and his lips curl up into a smile. There is a long pause, and another firework goes up and explodes into oblivion.

After this one, Laurens crosses his arms behind his head, just like Aaron’s seen him do so many times before. His smile gets bigger, just for the moment that Aaron can see him illuminated in fleeting yellow light.

“I think we both know what I meant,” he says through the dark, and the whistle of another firework rising punctuates his sentence. Red fills the sky above them, and Aaron can see Laurens looking back at him, now propped up on one elbow. The light in the air seems to linger, and when it goes, Aaron feels blinded. Through the darkness, he feels a movement. It only takes one second, and then Laurens is kissing him.

Aaron hasn’t kissed anyone since he met Theodosia. That was years ago. His heart jumps to the ribs in his chest, pounding it like a war drum. Laurens is warm, impossibly warm through the chill of the night, and his hands are everywhere. They’re on his jaw, his throat, his chest and his shoulders. Aaron, on the other hand, can’t move. He just sits there stone-like and lets Laurens touch him. He knows he shouldn’t let this happen. He’s kissed men before, but, god. Not in so long. He was young, and stupid, and Alexander was so close to myth that he shouldn’t even count. Now he knows better, and so they shouldn’t. They should break apart immediately, but. But. They’re in the dark. It’s dark and no one’s around and they’re both so drunk, and so- And so he kisses Laurens back.

Laurens kisses like he knows what he’s doing. Like he’s done this before, extensively so, and the way his hands feel trained tells Aaron that this isn’t the first time he’s kissed another man, either. He wonders how many times, and with who. Who else was awarded this kind of attention, and who Aaron is competing with in his own kisses. He tries to do well, despite how long its been, despite how unpracticed he feels. He kisses deeply, interestedly, tries to show through his mouth that he is saying _thank you_ and _please don’t stop_. He lets Laurens’ tongue snake into his mouth alongside his own, shivers at the feeling of it sweeping in and pressing his down. He slips his own beyond their meshing lips, runs it over Laurens’ teeth and feels the indent of the chip in his front two.

Laurens’ hands tighten on Aaron’s lapels, and then he helps Aaron shrug the coat off his shoulders. Aaron knows he shouldn’t be doing this, but he lets him, encourages him, even, twisting around helplessly to get it off. He’s too warm, and he graciously assumes Laurens must be, too, and so he tugs Laurens’ coat off of him. He’s sure they toss it straight into the still smoldering ashes beside them, and he’s certain it will burn, but neither of them care. Instead, they kiss, and they kiss for a very long time.

Aaron isn’t sure how long they kiss. But they kiss deeply, through the boom of more fireworks and showers of sparkles pouring down onto them. The sky itself seems to grow warm. The two of them grow warmer. Aaron digs his hands into Laurens’ curls, undoing the ribbon holding it up in a ponytail. Laurens actually _moans_ at that, his hands scrabbling for some sort of hold on Aaron. Aaron moves his hands to his back, lets Laurens scratch and claw at him through his shirt. He moans too, soft and quiet. He doesn’t speak. Neither of them speak. They fear it will ruin this- whatever this is.

Neither of them move to attend to it, but they both grow hard beneath their briefs. Aaron, personally, reasons this out to himself in his head. It must be the friction, the presence of a warm body writhing atop his own. Even as he thinks this, he is more than well aware of the fact that it’s Laurens, the way he smells and the way he moves and the way he kisses. Subtly, and without much real intent, they grind against each other. They moan back and forth into each other’s mouths, fingers digging into skin and holding fast and tight.

When the fireworks end, they don’t stop. They kiss until their mouths numb, and then a little longer. And when they finally pull away, they roll onto their backs and stare at the sky, dazed. They don’t look at each other. After a long silence of heavy breaths and the forest settling around them, Laurens rolls onto his side, facing away from Aaron. There is a pause, and then Aaron hears the slick sounds of Laurens taking himself in his palm, stroking quickly. His own cock jumps, and Aaron faces his back to him, too, doing the same. Shame pools hot in his gut, but greater is the thrill, the arousal, Laurens’ sheer presence. They listen to each other touch themselves, and when they’re done, Laurens lights another cigarette. He doesn’t offer one to Aaron this time, and so instead, he lays on his back, arms crossed behind his head, and tastes Laurens in his mouth. He thinks about his situation for a long time.

“Happy new year,” Laurens says to him after what feels like an entire year in itself. Aaron is a bit taken aback by the sudden break in the silence between them, but it’s only for a moment. Beyond that, he has to laugh to himself. He’d forgotten that it was turning to the new year tonight. Aaron breathes out all the air in his lungs and then takes in a deep breath, letting new, cold air flood his lungs. “Happy new year,” he echoes back to him, staring blankly up into the sky. It is now 1781. Aaron kissed John Laurens. And here they are.

Happy new year, indeed.

-

The fireworks are done, and so are they. Aaron and Laurens go back to their separate camps.

Aaron has two bunkmates now, one of whom is there when he returns. He tries to be quiet, to enter unseen and settle into bed, but the man notices him. He strikes up a conversation, and Aaron is well aware that the man is drunk. But who is he to judge? So is he. He settles down onto his cot, sitting upright on the edge and humoring him. He stays awake all night, all the way through until the sun rises on the year for the first time. When his bunkmate finally settles down to sleep, Aaron stays awake in his own bed for what feels like another lifetime. He thinks of the night. He thinks of what this may mean for him, and then he thinks of the war.

I am a busy man, Aaron decides finally, only moments before sleep overtakes him. I am busy, and I can’t waste my time thinking about trivial things like kissing or silly ideas of Laurens he gets in his head. He goes back to seeking rest, and just like that, he begins to tuck away the memories he’s made, keeping them safely hidden beneath many, many other things. 

Aaron signs a cross over his chest with one slow, shaking hand. _God help and forgive me._

-

The air in Aaron’s camp has been buzzing for weeks, both with voices and nearby bullets. The battles have grown more frequent, but even the weakest soldiers are fearless, now. There are rumors that the British will surrender soon. Aaron tries to find that same buzz within himself, but he cannot bring himself to do it. He doesn’t believe there to be a lick of truth in the rumors. There’ve been rumors of British surrender since he first joined up, since ‘76. It has been five long years with no sign of an end. He hears bullets hum in the distance, and feels only fear.

He is given another command of men to lead come the spring, and the British win. Aaron feels he cannot take the humiliation and the fear any longer. That evening, he journeys out to Washington’s camp and visits his tent. He asks to have his command stripped from him, and claims it is due to acute stress that it has been causing him. This isn’t a lie, but Aaron nearly breaks into a cold sweat under Washington’s steely gaze. Still, the eyes break from cold to confused when he explains himself. Washington furrows his brow, scratches his head, and cedes. He removes Aaron from his position, and boots him back down the proverbial totem pole. Aaron is but a pawn again. And as for his command, it is given, with a heavy heart, to Alexander Hamilton himself.

It’s impossible to _not_ know on the day Hamilton finds out. Their camps are nearby, and a man comes around near sunrise to let the camp know that Hamilton is the new commander. Washington never sends out messages like that, which Aaron knows to mean that Hamilton sent it himself. He shakes his head and gives it no more thought, lowering his head to his bowl of stew. Hamilton has always been full of himself. This is nothing new. What is new, however, is when he hears the man delivering the message say that they’ll be moving in on the British again soon. An all-out, all troops battle, one unlike the small tiffs they’ve had recently. Aaron didn’t know this. A crease forms in his brow, but he keeps swallowing lukewarm stew as if nothing has changed.

-

Hamilton as a commander is- strange, to say the best. He has a very specific, peculiar idea of how to win this battle, and Aaron isn’t personally a fan. But he’s not in that fleet, he’s not _following_ those orders, and so it doesn’t matter to him. Except, it does.

Hamilton tells his troops to hold their fire. In fact, he tells them to do more than that- to remove their ammunition entirely. He claims it is to prevent misfire that would give away their cover, but. To Aaron, and many other men, it seems a fantastic way to assure death. There are too many moving pieces in Hamilton’s plan for it to be plausible. Even Washington seems skeptical, but Alexander digs in and does not let go of his command. 

Aaron half regrets releasing it to him. Not for reasons like his plan of attack, but because this possible victory is only one more thing Hamilton has stolen from him. Aaron feels too much of his life already has been wasted on Hamilton, and during the months they plan, he takes more. 

When Aaron is not taking orders, he, cursing himself all the while, writes. He writes letters to Laurens, Laurens who he hasn’t seen since new year. Laurens who has ruined him, filled his head with pretty fantasy of his sweet lips, of his embrace, of his presence itself. The letter are sometimes angry. Sometimes they are cursing the man for making Aaron feel things he hadn’t for so long. Sometimes they are tender, begging for another night like the one they had. Wishful thinking, Aaron is sure. It does not stop his pen.

If the war ends, Aaron is going back to school. Let Laurens galavant off to South Carolina. Let him go back to London to be with his wife. Let him die.

Aaron Burr, attorney at law. It does have quite a ring to it.

-

The battle of Yorktown. Seventeen eighty-one, October.

The heat has found them once more. Aaron is holding an unloaded gun, crammed behind a thin tree trunk with two other men. It is the dead of night. He cannot see his hand before his face.

Fate contorts itself in awful way, and death has led Aaron here. He is to join hundreds of other ragged men, storm the fort, and drive away nearly nine thousand Brits. May God have mercy on his soul.

They wait. Aaron is now so used to waiting that it feels an integral part of himself.

Hamilton’s call comes from the back of the fleet. Aaron is near the middle. He still is not ready when a hand hits his back and hisses, “Ready in three.”

Aaron pauses. He falters. His chest goes floaty, weak. And then, instead of passing on the news, he whispers, “John?”

“Pass it up,” the voice urges, and Aaron’s heart sinks. He taps the man at the next tree with his blanked gun, signals him to continue the news forward. He stands in disappointed silence until he feels the hand back on his shoulder, gentler this time.

“Don’t you know, Burr?” the voice says. “I’m always in the right place at the right time.” Aaron swears he hears the grin in his voice. In fact, he can hardly control his own as he turns back. “John Laurens,” he says in what might be awe, every negative feeling he’d had toward him fleeing in an instant. Aaron wants to hug him. Just the sound of a familiar voice is such relief. Laurens squeezes his shoulder. “I’m glad to see you, too. I-” Laurens falters in a way Aaron has never heard him do before. He nearly stutters, going quiet for a moment, shocking Aaron into his own silence. It’s finally broken by a feeble whisper of, “I missed you, Burr.” Aaron stomach flips. “I missed you,” Aaron parrots back dumbly, and, well. He did. They don’t get a chance to say anything more, because men around them begin to stand. They follow suit, sharing an unseeable look through the darkness. Laurens sucks in a breath. “I’ll see you on the other side of the war,” he mumbles. Aaron nearly snaps his neck turning back to him. “Where’d you hear that?” he asks. 

“Alexander,” Laurens replies, and Aaron almost makes the mistake of laughing. Instead, he mutters, “Oh,” and turns back to face the front. May God see me through. 

-

The sun comes up. And goes down. And comes up once more. Aaron fights and kills. He loses track of time. But when the sun rises a third time, the dust begins to settle. They’re near Chesapeake Bay, and Cornwallis is trapped. The British have nowhere to go. The revolution has seized their fort. Aaron, for the first time in years, feels victorious. Maybe this is a new start. Maybe this is the first in a line of wins, the first step to their eventual victory. Aaron is tired, but willing to fight if the fight is worth it. He will continue as long as he must.

And then, all at once, the men begin to march away.

A single drum begins to beat.

Aaron turns and watches other men rise from the trench, confused glances are shared. Aaron rises, too, staring forward at the marching row of men, retreating. And then something hits him, full force, across the broad of his shoulders.

Aaron crumples under the weight, but is immediately pulled back up, hands grasping at him hard. “Burr,” a voice urges him. “Don’t you see what this means?”

Aaron already knows who it is. He doesn’t bother to look before answering, “I’m afraid I don’t.”

“They’re retreating,” Laurens nearly giggles. “Waving a white flag. It’s over.” Aaron turns to face him now, sees him in a light he’s scarcely seen Laurens in before. The sun is out. He nearly glows, his hair reflecting golden halo across his skin. For many, many reasons, Aaron smiles. “You mean. We won?” Aaron’s head spins. The war is over. He gets to go home, back to New York. He gets to move on.

“Not yet.” Laurens whispers, but his smile implies otherwise. And then, even so, he yells their victory to the sky. Men all around them jump up and echo him.

“We won! We won! We won! We won!”

The British continue their retreat. Aaron pulls Laurens back down into the trench, and in the bright light of the day and the Lord, he kisses him. He is not damned.

Laurens grins back at Aaron when they pull away. He holds him by the lapels of his jacket.

“Come with me to South Carolina,” Laurens mutters to Aaron, speaking words only for him. “The war’s not won.”

“I can’t,” Aaron says. “I’m going back to school. I’m going to be a lawyer.” Laurens’ smile sinks back into his face, but it doesn’t leave him looking defeated. He nods solemnly. “I respect that, Aaron. You’ll be a damn fine lawyer.”

“But you should come with me, Laurens. You studied law. We could work together.” Aaron already is planning on it. He could see himself by Laurens’ side for years. But Laurens shakes his head. “I never wanted to be a lawyer, Burr.” He cracks a grin. “All I ever really wanted was to win.”

They hold onto each other for what feels like forever while the sun climbs the horizon. They will part, but see each other again. Something too strong to ignore has formed between them, and both men know this. The British march past their trench, heavy, shameful footsteps. One of them begins to sing a drinking song, and it fades away into eternity, echoing against the sky. The world turned upside down…

Meanwhile, Aaron’s world is only just now beginning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
>  READ THESE!  
>   
> lots of stuff. one, i kno there's some historical inacuracies, but believe me, it was done out of the goodness of my heart. i just love a right place, right time scenario. can you blame me?  
>   
> burr didn't get shot at monmouth. laurens did, however, nearly get chopped in half at brandywine. go figure! also, neither were there during the battle of yorktown. burr was in canada, and CERTAINLY did not almost get command of the men at yorktown and then just hand it to hammy. and meanwhile, laurens was. somewhere.  
>   
> this is my favorite thing i've ever written. these two have a crazy good dynamic. love love love em. please give kudos and comments! i wanna know what yall think!! (also, there is a short epilogue that is. not necessary but recommended to read)  
> 


	2. epilogue

On the day Aaron becomes a lawyer, he is visited by Hamilton.

Hamilton no longer dresses poorly. He’s only ever seen Hamilton in warclothes and a ragged, ill-fitting suit, so to see him dressed so extravagantly, adorned in rich greens, is jarring. Still, his hair is disheveled. His eyes are decorated with heavy bags beneath them. Hamilton nearly looks like a caricature of a man he once was.

Aaron greets him politely. He has moved beyond hatred. He offers Hamilton tea, but the man adamantly refuses it.

“Aaron,” he says, his voice weak. He blinks his large brown eyes twice, and then settles on the edge of a side table rather than a seat. He puts his hands to his face, and stays silent. Aaron, reasonably concerned, stands and walks to him. He has seen Hamilton distressed, but never like this. He reaches to put a hand on his shoulder, but hesitates. Hamilton seems almost fragile.

“Aaron,” he repeats, more deflated this time. He sounds like he has given up so completely that his voice has done the same. Aaron watches him closely. Cautiously.

Hamilton lifts his face. He is streaked with tears. “I’ve received a letter from Henry Laurens.” There is barely a pause before he says, “John Laurens was shot and killed in battle.”

Aaron feels everything within him crack.

“I feel as if I have lost a part of me,” Hamilton waxes. Aaron can hardly breathe. He manages to nod.

“He and I had so much planned,” Hamilton reports, sorrow dripping from his words. Aaron wants to scream. Does Hamilton not know? Does he not understand that John Laurens was supposed to be a part of his world beyond the war? More, did Laurens not tell him?

“He never met Philip,” Hamilton continues. “Or Angie, or…” Aaron ceases to listen. He never met Laurens’ daughter. He never even knew her name. He’d give anything to go back and ask. Anything to care for Laurens on the first night he came to Aaron’s tent.

Hamilton cries in Aaron’s lounge for a while. Then he gathers himself and leaves, without so much as a word of condolence for Aaron. Aaron does not blame him. Hamilton would never understand, as it is.

Aaron sits silently, stoically in his reading chair. A world without John Laurens is no longer one he is interested in.

-

Many years later, when he is Vice President, Aaron goes to South Carolina. While there, he visits the field in which they found Laurens lifeless, and lights up his first cigarette in twenty years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaron burr became a lawyer in new york in fall 1782. john laurens was shot and killed in fall 1782. this was too good to resist.


End file.
